I think the realization of the feeling is killing me.
That feeling, which I had
strove for, lived for,
grew, molded, revise,
to spread and make
into glistening perfection
to the standards of ancient words,
Words of Truth.
I think...it may be killing me. So slowly.
And I,
I cannot turn away nor grasp
this devastating epiphany
Cannot ignore nor accept
This...doom. (of a heart).
Is this...how the sick, slow, dreading of death feels?
I know I should run,
Oh how I want to stay!
And if I do not leave-
will it simply leave first?
It may be what kills me.
Still, I stand my ground.
Courageous? or Naive?
But to approach with caution-
Futile? Hope, glinting?
Could I possibly? Change-
The Course? Is it set in stone?
It is Destiny? or Coincidence?
Or am I just lucky? Or not at all?
I think, what I once yearned, I now dread.
But something, something keeps me here.
In the Suffering, (a bird without sky)
holding back salty tears tasted on dry lips-
No- only held back till the hollow whisper is gone-
Then draining, flowing, freely, streaming in like Light-
Light, that was never mine to hold.
Shivers,
not the pleasing kind,
down my spine,
I lay, and sink down,
Hiding. Hiding.
Hiding. Hiding. Dying.
So, where do I go from here? Anywhere?
Nothing? Have I done nothing?
I will. I will. I promised myself.
And am I...lovely? Am I beautiful?
As many have said. Does it even matter?
Sometimes, all I wish for is a veil
And sometimes...
its only that they may remember
the way my eyes looked when I smiled.
And what will it come to, at the end? And After?
When all I wanted to be was the Love of the Lifetime!
When I gave it my all, and was left with the end result.
Why does it makes us cry so, when we shall all be ashes?
I want to remember the laughter,
I want to remember the flutters,
the warm, serenity, rare moments,
comfortable feeling, togetherness,
the embraces, jests, and merriment,
the desires, and promises, and words.
Maybe most of all, I will just remember words.
I think maybe...that's what killing me.
But even now, they are my only solace.
So, like Love, that which I thrive on, kills me.
Like the man that has ever loved, never kissed.
Like the poet that has no pen, has ever writ.
